“Grass. Lake water. Sunshine.” I sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s what I smell like to you. Isn’t it?” “Yeah,” I said hoarsely. “It is.” “I never told you what it was like for me. How I knew that day. When we came back. How I knew you were my mate.” “It’s—” “Home,” he whispered. “You smell like home. You always have. And that’s the only thing that matters. You don’t need to remember because I remember for the both of us.”
